Simeron
by KMW1919
Summary: Everyone knows the story of Harry Potter. This is not his story. This is the story of a Half-Elven girl, Simeron Moncrief, and her journey through school, two wars, and the life before, in between, and after. Simeron makes friends with the friendless, finds love with the unexpected, and fights for those without the power to fight for themselves, from First Year, to Deathly Hallows.
1. Prologue

Witch.

When her aunt had spoken the word when she was a girl, it had sounded sweet. Special. When her father spoke it, it was as if it were something to be afraid of. He spoke of her abilities with a hesitation that always made her feel like he hoped they'd all wake up someday and she'd be normal. Of course, normal was a relative word for Simeron. After all, how normal could a Half-Elf really be?

For the ten years of her life, the woods and hills of Lethylia had been her home. It's where she was raised, and where she loved to be. There was splendor in this realm, kept apart from the chaos of the mortal world. Her father loved her. Her aunt loved her. Her mother had loved her. Her uncle tried to keep her hidden. For even in the elven woods of Lethylia, Simeron was special.

The niece of the High King of the Elves is a title that was never supposed to fall on what some would call a half-breed. Her father Etan was never supposed to fall in love with a witch either, but fate has a funny way of slipping in and changing the course of the world.

The elves had a long history of magic of their own kind. Talented potions masters and gifted with sight, many sought to gain their trust and affections, that they might share their knowledge. But a long tradition of isolationism kept the Elves to their own lands, and what they knew stayed hidden with them. But some strayed, seeking the ways of the mortal witches and wizards.

Etan, younger brother to the High King Revath, abandoned his people in his two-thousandth year, defying the wishes of his brother to teach and be taught. Within a few months, Etan found himself at the gates of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Within those halls, he met a young Witch named Amelie. She was mesmerizing, as beautiful as any elf, with hair white as ivory satin and eyes of sparkling blue crystal, witty as they come, and smarter than most. Love was the easy part, as easy as breathing, and fallen faster than rain. Etan vowed to leave the land of his forefathers behind, marry Amelie, and spend immortality in the peace and tranquility of the French countryside. But mortality is fleeting and fragile. It can be taken away as easily as it can be given.

Passion sparked love, and love created the greatest gift this world has to offer. When Amelie became pregnant, Etan took it as a sign that he'd made the right choice, and was blessed, rather than cursed by the gods above. But it was not to last. Labor has fell many, strong and weak, alike, and Amelie was no exception. And there are some things that not even the greatest magic can heal. Etan was devastated, broken with the loss of love. He took his daughter, a beautiful girl who Amelie, in her dying breaths, named Simeron, and left the fields of France, where sorrow flowed. He had nowhere to go. Nowhere but one place.

Only for the love of a brother did Revath allow Etan to return. Only for the pleas of their sister, Yliav, was Simeron welcomed in. Her father did not resent her, though many in his position would. He had promised Amelie to love and cherish her always, to raise her to be good, and kind. And so she was. The light of Lethylia could shine no brighter than Simeron, for it was inside of her. She grew in grace and beauty, her mother's eyes and white-blonde hair beautiful against her lithe Elven frame and pale, clear complexion.

With her mother's talent, it came as no surprise when Simeron started to show signs of magic as early as the age of one. It began innocent enough, like moving objects from across the room, but by the time she was five, the extent of her abilities blossomed. On one occasion, she can be remembered lighting a small tree on fire when she was upset. On another, she caused the bath to overflow with bubbles, effectively flooding the chamber and hallway. The growth in her magic frightened her uncle, and many other Elves in Lethylia. Revath questioned the decision to allow the child into their kingdom, threatening to expel Etan and Simeron from the land. He called her a witch, with nothing but bitter resentment to coat the words. The Elves had never dealt with such power; magic without restraint and in a world without the means to teach her to control it. They did their best, cleaning up every mess, putting out every fire.

"Your magic is a part of you. Only you can know how to control it," her father used to tell her. "Your mother was the brightest witch of her age, more talented than any other. I know that you can be just like her, and you will be. One day."

So, she took it upon herself, doing all she could to be what her family, what her people, wanted her to be. For years she worked, as her magic swelled inside of her, pushing at the edges of her being, begging for release. The council of Elves became restless, unsure of what to do with the young witch.

"The girl is dangerous," argued some, "If she remains in Lethylia, she'll destroy the entire wood!" Still others defended her. "She's just a child," they claimed, "With time, she will learn to control it. We can teach her what we can." But uncertainty sank its yellow fangs into the Elves hearts.

Witch.

A word that struck fear into the hearts of all of Lethylia. Days went by where it seemed only her father and aunt cared for her, for to them, magic is only something to be feared within the wicked. But you can hardly be surprised to hear that fate is the great connector. No realm, no place, no person can escape it; it touches everyone and is the trigger that sets destiny in motion. For how can a Half-Elf born in May nineteenth of 1960 be of such great importance to a boy with a lightening scar born July thirty-first 0f 1980?

This is her story.


	2. Chapter 1: The Letter

It was chaos. Soldiers running through the paths and over the bridges, kicking up the dirt of Lethylia. Simeron scrambles over tree roots and jagged rocks that poke up from the ground, looking for a place to watch the commotion. It was her eleventh birthday. Simeron had been sitting down to tea with her Papa and Aunt Yliav, when the bells began to ring from the border watch tower.

"Stay here, Sim," Etan told his daughter. "Stay with your aunt."

But for all of Yliav's talents, she lacked a strong maternal instinct. Within minutes of Etan leaving, the princess of Lethylia ran out the door, following the echoing thrum of the warning signals. Simeron charged after her, the power in her blood throbbing in her veins with every heartbeat. She watched as the soldiers formed lines just over the hill as they braced for attack. She had seen this day before, in a way, for along with her mother's magic, she possessed the Elvish gift of sight, albeit in its weakest form. Simeron had the ability to see shadows of things, past, present, and future. The images are never clear, but on several occasions she has predicted, quite rightly, a damaging storm, or an intruder approaching the edges of Lethylia.

No one had breached the border in centuries. The gate was hidden from the mortal realms by an ancient magic, keeping it invisible to anyone without Elvish blood. Anyone who happened to wander upon would suddenly remember something important to be done, and turn away. It would take a great power to find the gate, never mind entering.

"Simeron!" Etan runs by as his daughter leans from the crest of a rock, one arm slung hazardously over a low hanging branch. "Get back to our chambers, you shouldn't be here."

"Papa, what's going on?"

Simeron swings down from her perch, running to grab at the hem of her father's tunic. Etan stoops down, scooping her slender hands gently in his own, pulling her close to him. Men and women in leather and armor with swords and arrows run past them swiftly and with great ease. The gentle of their kind wearing silk gowns and tunics moved with haste to the throne room, the most secure space in Lethylia.

"Someone's at the gate, someone we don't know. Now, I need you to get to the throne room and shut the door. Open it only for myself or your Uncle Revath. Can you do this for me?"

Simeron nods obediently, tears brimming her eyes. The feeling of magic churning in her stomach, that warmth that spreads from her heart reaches out like thick liquid, spreading through her arms and stinging her palms. She presses her hands into her dress, dampening the sensation.

 _This isn't the time for an accident_ , she tells herself. Etan stands, leaning down to kiss her on the top of her head. They move apart, Etan to the border, Simeron up the mountain to the throne room. Her feet pound against the compact road until the large oak doors, partially cracked open, stand before her. Shouts from the soldiers drift up the hill followed by the boom of a single man, his voice baritone matched by a flash of white light. Simeron dodges behind the doors, two men swinging them shut behind her, the windows shuttered, swathing the hall in darkness.

⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭

The horn blairs from the march below. The soldiers are returning. Simeron starts from where she sits bunched into the corner behind her uncle's throne, a place she often hid during council meetings. The sound of thunder comes from the door, everyone inside jumping and moving away. Simeron walks slowly towards the sound.

"Simeron," Her uncle's voice roars, "Anyone. Open the door!"

Simeron moves to the door, but she isn't strong enough to lift the cross-board that keeps it tightly sealed. Two Elves come from behind, pulling up the plank, the door flying open. Revath shoves the doors inward, the pressure of the air knocking Simeron backwards. He walks swiftly to the throne sitting atop the dias. Behind him comes Etan and Yliav and a group of six soldiers walking in perfect formation. Between their shoulders, a lavender cap bobs gently up and down with each step, the violet tassel swinging from side to side as the intruder takes in the view.

Revath's face twists not with rage, but with agitation, as if an insect buzzed around his head and no swatting would rid himself of it. The soldiers stop, breaking away from their charge, but blocking the view of their guest. Simeron moves around the crowd, weaving between legs and skirts and boots. Yliav lays her hands on Simeron's shoulders, stopping her in her tracks.

"Understand, sir," Revath calls, "that you are here because Yliav and Etan think you may be of use to our family." His eyes scan the room, landing on the his niece. "I do not like strangers in my lands. However, I will hear what it is you have come to say."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," the stranger speaks, moving forward.

He wears a long robe, matching the shade of his hat. Silver lining runs along the edges, the sparkle of it dancing across the floor. His voice is strong, but not the fearsome thing heard in the woods, and he does not glow as Simeron expected from the burst that shone through the trees. He moves around the guards, their shoulders stiffening, their hands tightening over their weapons. He sports a beard, touching the top of his chest, a steely grey to match his hair which reaches just beneath his shoulders. His nose is wide and strong, his lips mostly hidden beneath his combed moustache. Bright blue eyes stare out from underneath upturned eyebrows that look like wings. He turns, facing the Elves that stand around him, searching. Searching until he finds what he's looking for: Simeron. His gaze pins her down, as if he could look into her, and see.

"Your Majesty," the man turns back to Revath, "I have come on behalf of the Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. It has come to my attention that there is a young witch within the beautiful halls of Lethylia," he gestures around, a friendly smile playing on his lips. "I have come to deliver her acceptance letter, and to prepare her for the upcoming school year, which will begin on September first. If you could point out who I should be speaking to, I'll just⸺"

Revath raises a hand, silencing the wizard. Etan moves discreetly over, making his way slowly to his daughter. Simeron's heart races. She'd heard of Hogwarts before, her father had mentioned it as one of the schools of magic. She'd never been around another witch or wizard, and in a strange way, to Simeron, the man before her felt like a long-lost relative.

"Tell me, wizard, what makes you think that we have a witch among us?"

"Oh, our records are quite clear, and quite accurate." The man pulls a small piece of paper from within his robes, unfolding it with his ink-stained fingers, "Yes, it's right here. 'Miss Simeron Moncrief, taking her mother Amelie Moncrief's surname, daughter of the Elven Lord Etan, living in the Elven wood of Lethylia.'"

He folds the note, tucking it back within a different pocket. Revath sighs, shifting his gaze to Etan, the question written across his face. Etan nods solemnly, moving to stand beside Simeron and Yliav. Both of their hands on her shoulder, they move forward to face the wizard, his hands connected loosely in front of him.

He smiles down at her, offering a single hand to shake, "Simeron Moncrief, I presume?"

She nods at him, "Pleased to meet you, Sir."

"My name is Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster at Hogwarts. I have something for you."

From his pocket, he pulls a cream colored envelope with swirls of black ink penned across the front reading: "Miss S. Moncrief, The Most High Woods of Lethylia."

⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭

"And what is it that she'll be learning to do at Hogwarts?"

Etan wasn't sure how to feel about the news that his daughter had been accepted into the wizarding school. On one hand, it could be the answer to a prayer, a place for Simeron to train in the use of magic, a place where she could be around people more like her. On the other hand, Etan had never been away from her; his daughter that he vowed to protect. How could he let her go?

"Miss Moncrief will not only be taught how to control her magic, but also how to use it properly in its various forms." Professor Dumbledore's eyes linger on Simeron, where they have spent most of their time since leaving the throne room. "Hogwarts provides a safe environment for students to learn and grow. I promise you, it is the best place for a child of her talents."

Etan steps forward, squaring himself off with the wizard, "Are there others? Other students like her?"

Simeron's face turns a bright red. She didn't like to be thought of as different from other children, though from the moment she was born she always was. The only Half-Elf is Lethylia, what few other children there were, they always seemed to know she wasn't like them, and, in a way, she paid for it. She spent of the time with her father or her cousins, Revath's children Rohera and Avras. If there is one thing that she is sure of, it is that as different as it is for a half-witch to be in Lethylia, it can only be matched by how different it will be to have a half-elf in the mortal realm.

This question doesn't phase Dumbledore, nor does it surprise him. "Hogwarts is the home to students of many different parentages, some students are even born to completly non-magic families, people known as muggles." Dumbledore pauses, his eyes shifting again over the company before him, "As a matter of fact, I believe there is another Half-Elf Miss Moncrief's age who will be attending this year."

A hushed murmur spreads across the room. No one had ever heard of Half-Elves until Simeron, and they certainly had no beliefs in the possibility of another. For Simeron, the idea filled her head with dreams and wonder, wonder at who this child must be. Boy? Or another girl? Who were their parents? Simeron could remember of a few Elves who had left, but whoever they were, they would have had to have left before she was born, of course. There were whispers of some who left with her father, but their names always slipped her mind. Her uncle said they were better left forgotten.

Standing next to her aunt, her mind wanders. She pictures groups of children running through hallways, herself among them. She has friends, children her own age with magic like her. Magic. Witch. A place where the words are spoken without fear, but rather with kindness and a sense of normalcy, as if she were just your average girl.

"Sim," her father's voice speaks softly to her.

Lost in her daydreams, Simeron doesn't realize that the whole room watches her, their eyes pressing into her with curious coolness.

"Simeron," Etan crouches down in front, looking up to his daughter's face, "Simeron, darling, what do _you_ want? I promised your mother I'd take care of you, and I love more than anything. And if loving you means letting you go to Hogwarts, then that's what I want you to do. It's up to you."

Simeron lifts her eyes, looking from the Elves that she's known her whole life to the wood and white stone that makes up this hall, that makes up all the halls in Lethylia. She thinks of the flowers, the way the sun shines over the deep pools beneath the waterfall that comes over the mountain. It's home. And still…Dumbledore watches her, his head tilted, his expression kind with a hint of mischief twinkling in his eyes, as if he knows something she has yet to learn. And there is so much for her to learn.

"I think…I think I want to go, Papa. I think ths is what I'm meant to do, where I'm meant to be."

Etan offers a sad smile, reaching a hand to gently cup her cheek, "Well, then." He stands, turning to face the only wizard to ever enter Lethylia. "I must confess, Professor, I've no idea what comes next."

Dumbledore chuckles softly, walking around King Revath towards Simeron and Etan, "Everything you'll need to know can be found inside of Miss Moncrief's acceptance letter, right down to the very last book. You'll find all these things in Diagon Alley in London." He stands before Simeron, peering down at her over the hook of his nose, "I look forward to having you at Hogwarts, Miss Moncrief. No doubt, you will go on to do great things."

With the nod of his head, he vanishes, as if in thin air. Gasps of shock erupt around the room. Revath sends a small party of men to search for the wizard while Etan laughs, which surprises Simeron most of all. Her father knew what the wizard had done, he'd told Simeron once. Apparation, he'd called it. As the company of Elves disperses, Simeron pulls the unopened envelope from the folds of her gown, breaking the seal with her thumb, and pulling out the contents within.

 _Dear Miss Moncrief,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

 _Term begins September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

 _Yours Sincerely,_

 _Minerva McGonagall_


	3. Chapter 2: The Beginning

Chapter 2

Simeron had never seen a train before. Standing before the Hogwarts Express, her eyes grew to the size of saucers and her heart began an unsteady rhythm that caused an unpleasant flutter within her chest. Her father clung tightly to her shoulder. She knew he was afraid of losing her in the crowd, and she didn't mind since he would soon have to let go.

Etan wore an old pair of faded slacks the color of mud topped with a large-knit sweater that matched the color of the forest back home in Lethylia. When he walked into the hall Simeron had to fight the urge to laugh, for her father looked like a tree, both in color and stature. A floor length sleeveless robe of black velvet hangs from his shoulders, gently grazing the ground. As for Simeron, she wears a simple green dress, matching her father, black socks that rise up to her knees, and a flat pair of dark maroon Mary Janes.

Her trolley rumbles in front of her, trunks and brown paper packages stacked up to her waist. A white-faced barn owl stares from between thin metal bars, its eyes piercing and watchful, boredom crossing his expression. His feathers ruffle at his back as he tucks his head beneath and orange tinted wing. Perrigan, she called him. Simeron smiles at the owl; she'd always loved animals, especially the birds of the sky. A small case with her robes sits at the top, her wand tucked within the folds.

When she went to Ollivander's, she wasn't sure what to expect. Two children rushed out the door, long, rectangular boxes gripped tightly in their hands, parents following closely with uneasy looks. A bell sounds, bouncing from wall to wall, when the door is pushed open. Shelves stacked with boxes, many at precarious angles, line every wall. A black counter stands across from the door, a massive ledger sitting open beside an ink well and quill pen. Oil lamps cast a warm orange glow around the room, shadows and light flickering up and down the walls. Etan stands close to Simeron, his hands tense and prepared to grab one of the several knives sheathed within his robes.

"Hello? Is anyone here?"

An elderly man with dark grey hair walks around the corner, his body thin and frail, but spry and full of a young man's energy. His eyes sparkle in the dim light, his lips wavering into a clever smile.

"Half-Elven," he says, his voice soft and raspy, moving to behind the weathered counter. "It is not unheard of, though very rare, especially with such talents. And two in one year, remarkable."

"You must be Mr. Ollivander, Sir." Simeron looks up at him, his very being magnetic and intriguing.

Ollivander nods, puffing his narrow chest out in pride, "I am, miss…"

"Simeron. Simeron Moncrief."

"Simeron Moncrief," he mumbles, "a name I will not soon forget, I'm sure." He looks up to Etan, the Elf's frame standing a head above his own, "And you must be the father?"

"Etan. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ollivander." Etan bows slightly, Ollivander nodding in return.

"Well then, shall we begin, Miss? Which is your wand arm?"

"Right, Sir, I think. At least that's the one I write with."

Ollivander smiles, tenderness in his eyes, "Hold out you arm, please."

Simeron steps forward to the counter, excitement and anticipation running through her with her magic. Her father had explained that getting matched with a wand was a right of passage for young witches and wizards. He told her that her mother had told him how the wand helps a young witch channel her magic, and use it properly.

Mr. Ollivander pulls a tape measure from his front pocket, allowing it to stretch down. Simeron jumps back as the object began to move of its own accord, measuring her from shoulder to finger, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and around her head. Etan's nose wrinkles in distaste at the display, his hands connected behind him, though his eyes glinted with fervent curiosity.

"You'll find each Ollivander wand to be unique. Wands are given a core of a magical substance: unicorn hair, dragon heartstring, etcetera. Every witch or wizard must be _chosen_ by their wand, and you will never be able to get the same result from the wand of another."

Simeron stands still as a statue, scared to move around the tape measure as it wrapped twice around each ankle. Having never been around a magical object, she worries that one false step and it would decide it needed to measure around her neck. She'd hate to offend it.

"That will do," Ollivander called from the far side of a shelf. The tape measure lifted away and fell in a pile on the counter. Ollivander reappears, carrying a stack of four boxes: one blue, one grey, one brown, and one green. "Here we are, Elm and unicorn hair, nine-and-a-half inches, rather springy."

He held the wand out, balanced delicately at the ends of his fingers. Simeron took it in hand, waving it gently. She felt ridiculous as nothing happened, not even the smallest spark would come from the rounded tip.

"Apparently not."

Mr. Ollivander held out his hand, Simeron placing the wand sheepishly in his palm. Ollivander shuffles through the boxes, reading labels, mumbling to himself all the while. He picks up the brown box, reading the end before shaking his head and quickly setting it to the side. He lifts of the box of grey, reading the label for longer than he had the others. An eyebrow arches, his eyes flicking to squint at Simeron, who kicks one shoe against the other.

Pulling the lid from the box, he pulls out a wand the color of night, left rough unlike the sanded one prior. "Try this: ebony, dragon heartstring, eleven-and-a-half-inches, surprisingly swishy flexibility."

From the moment she took the wand, it was as it were a part of her, an extension of herself. With a single fluid movement, Simeron brings the wand from shoulder to hip, bright white light erupting from the end, filling every dark crack and corner of the shop.

Etan's mouth dropped, Mr. Ollivander clapped enthusiastically, a broad grin spreading, though not nearly as wide as Simeron's. It was a feeling she'd never experienced, not like magic sputtering from every part of her, but rather in a smooth flow from her stomach through her fingers and out into the world around her.

"Well done, Miss Moncrief, well done. That is quite impressive for a Half-Elf, an interesting match. Ebony and dragon heartstring. A powerful pairing, if I do say." Mr. Ollivander lifted his quill, dipping it into the pot of ink and scribbling some notes down. "Two Half-Elves," he laughs, "I've provided wands to Purebloods, Half-Bloods, and Muggle Borns, but never Half-Elves, you and Mr. Cromwell."

Etan's head snaps to attention. He walks beside his daughter, placing a hand on her shoulder, "Mr. Cromwell?"

"Yes, Benedict Cromwell. Came in here a few hours ago. Elm and unicorn hair, twelve inches, reasonably springy." Though questions form on the end of Etan's tongue, Ollivander carries on, saying, "That will be seven gold Galleons."

Etan placed the money in Ollivander's hand, his mouth pressed into a tight smile. Giving their thanks and receiving a "good day" from Mr. Ollivander, they were on their way.

Walking through Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, students, some young as Simeron, walk through the barely-open space like ants moving to the hill. Older students walk coolly and confidently around, the experience nothing new or out of the ordinary.

"All aboard!" a conductor calls from somewhere hidden on the platform, his voice resonating through the bricked building. Simeron glances at the large clock hanging from the wall: five till eleven. Etan tightens his grip as Simeron winds her way towards the train.

She turns to her father, her eyes brimming with tears as she looks at his face through her eyelashes. Putting her hand on his arm, she squeezes gently as though she could send love through her body and into his, giving him all the warmth he would ever need. "It's only until Christmastime, Papa. That's barely any time at all."

He strokes her cheek, placing a kiss on the top of her head, too choked up to speak. He was proud of her, perhaps more than she would ever know. From the top of the luggage trolley, Simeron pulls down Perrigan, the bird waking and chirping in agitation at the sudden movement. In her other hand she grips the handle of the leather suitcase carrying her robes and wand. Her trunks being carried onto the train by a man in uniform, she climbs up the low step entering into the small corridor.

Butterflies beat their wings in her stomach as she moves through the narrow hallway. Students of every size bustle about, some in robes and some in everyday clothes. A few girls a few years older than Simeron chatter excitedly as they push open a door to an open compartment. Simeron moves a bit further down before finding an empty one. Inside, two blue-cushioned seats line each wall, a large window across from the door and a gold rack above her head. She walks to the window, placing her things on the seat to her right, taking in the last of the students clamoring onto the train. Etan moves down the platform, his eyes fixing on every window until he sees her. Simeron peaks her head through the opening, smiling down at her father.

"I love you, Sim, and I'm so, so proud of you."

"I love you, Papa. I'll see you at Christmas!"

Etan waves up at her, blowing a kiss from his open palm. Simeron does the same, waving to him as the whistle squeals across the platform. With a jolt and a billow of steam, the Hogwarts Express lurches into motion, slowly moving towards the open arch. Simeron and Etan watch each other, their hands extended until they are out of sight.

Breath catches in Simeron's throat as she fights the urge to cry. Anxious anticipation overwhelms her as she lifts her suitcase to place it on the rack. The leather slips against her fingers, gravity pulling it down, narrowly missing her face. Bracing the case against her hand, she presses it up above her head, and although she is tall for her age due to her Elvish genes, the case is too heavy for her to lift.

"Here, let me help."

Simeron jumps, turning swiftly to find the source of the voice. The suitcase whips around, shooting out at the end of her arm towards the door. A boy only slightly taller than herself jumps back out of the doorway, the sound of an animal escaping from his lips, black school robes fluttering around his ankles. His eyes are wide and the brightest blue Simeron had ever seen. His frame is thin and lanky, his hair is a mess of golden curls that fall down to the tops of his slightly pointed ears.

"Benedict Cromwell?"

The boys face turns red, his eyes narrowing as he steps towards her, not away. "Yes. Have we met?"

Simeron shakes her head, tucking the right side of her platinum hair back, exposing the point of her own ear. Benedict's eyebrows shoot up, his mouth forming and open circle. "Simeron Moncrief?"

Simeron nods. "Did Mr. Ollivander tell you about me?"

"He did. At least he mentioned your name." He glances at her case, still dangly from her hand, swinging slightly, "Here, let me get that."

In a single movement, Benedict grabs the case from her, swinging it easily to the rack. Simeron's face warms. Letting go of the handle, his eyes trail down, falling onto the owl eyeing him from the corner. "Is he yours?"

Simeron nods, "His name's Perrigan."

"He's really pretty." He looks around the compartment from top to bottom before sighing, "Well, I guess I'll be going then."

Benedict turns to go as Simeron says, "If you don't have anywhere else to sit, you can sit here, if you'd like."

For a moment he looks as if he'll go, but then he smiles, moving into the compartment, sitting opposite Simeron. They talk as the train rolls over the countryside, each fascinated by the life of the other. Benedict speaks of growing up in the wizarding community. He tells her about having magic around the house and going to all the shops around Diagon Alley, explaining the ministry and about Hogwarts' history. In turn, she tells him about the Elves and their culture, speaking of living away from the mortal world and the adventures she had in Lethylia.

"So you really grew up in Lethylia? My mother told me about it. She said it was the most beautiful place in the world."

"Why didn't she come back with you?"

Benedict shrugged, "She loves my father, and Revath told her that she couldn't come back as long as she was with him. She didn't want me to grow up without him." He fiddles with the hem of his robes, "And what about you? How come he let you and your dad come back?"

It was the one thing she hoped wouldn't come up: her family. Simeron had never really spoken about her mother to strangers. Then again, she'd never really met a stranger, exactly. "My mother died just after I was born." Simeron licks her lips, thinking through her next words, "Revath allowed my father to come back, well because he's his brother. I was only allowed to come too because of my aunt Yliav."

Benedict's face falls, his hands dropping into his lap, "Oh, I'm sorry about your mother. If I'd known, I wouldn't've asked."

It was Simeron's turn to shrug with a sad smile, "How could you have known?"

The door to there compartment suddenly flies open, a small draft flying into the small room. A small girl with raven hair and a round face stands in the open doorway. Her eyes are dark brown, her nose narrow and long. She's dressed in a pair of what Simeron learned to be called jeans, and a simple jumper the color of a plum. She reminds Simeron of a mouse.

"Hi Ben," she says, "any more room in here?"

Without waiting for an invitation, she moves to sit across from Benedict, placing herself in the seat beside Simeron. Simeron doesn't quite know what to make of her. She'd never met anyone so bold, but she seemed nice enough.

"Simeron, this is Maisie Yewel. Maisie, Simeron Moncrief."

Maisie turns to Simeron, extending a firm hand which Simeron takes with delicate grace. "It's good to meet you, Simeron."

"You as well."

"Say, you're like Ben, aren't you. Half-Elven, I mean. He mentioned your name once, and no one as pretty as you could be anything but."

Simeron's face turns red, unsure of how she feels being known by someone she doesn't, "That's right."

"Swell, first day and I already have two friends. Ben and I grew up near each other, you see."

Friends wasn't necessarily the word Simeron would use, but it was still good to know people. And who knows, maybe she'd grow to like Maisie. Maybe they could be friends, real friends. Benedict smiles at her, an apologetic look on his face, but Simeron shrugs it off as Maisie starts talking about the time she accidentally shrank her grandmother's tea cozy into four sizes too small. Leaning back into her seat, Simeron settles into the rocking of the train and the feelings of happiness.

⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭ ⸭

By the time Simeron finished changing into her robes, the train was dark as the moon had taken over for the sun. She'd found that she'd actually come to like Maisie and Benedict. They were kind and helped her understand anything she didn't about the world they grew up in (though after a try, she still couldn't understand Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans), and they listened intently to her stories of running through the forest. They made each other laugh, and suddenly the thought of going to a wizarding school wasn't so daunting. They told her about the four houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw, and she'd decided that she'd very much like to be in Ravenclaw.

Most of the students had settled themselves into their seats as the train made its final push to Hogwarts, so the hallway was mostly empty and easy to stroll through. With every door that she passed she would glance in, taking in every student, every person who was like her.

From up ahead, the sound of arguing spills into the hall. Simeron's ears perk as she listens, the voices young and heated. Simeron lingered just outside, careful to stay out of view as the conversation continued.

"No. If you'd rather be brawny than brainy⸺" said the first boy. Though Simeron couldn't see his face, there was something snide in the way he spoke.

A second boy speaks, this one she could see part of his face, dark-haired and grey-eyed sitting with the arms crossed over his chest, "Where're you hoping to go, seeing as you are neither?"

The boy beside the second bursts into a fit of laughter, his dark, unruly hair bouncing around his forehead. A girl's voice rises above the noise, and Simeron can hardly believe a girl would sit through such behavior.

"Come on, Severus, let's find another compartment." Her voice is sharp and annoyed, apparently _not_ happy with the boys' words.

The compartment door opens harshly, with a crack against the frame. A girl with red hair down to her waist stomps out, turning down the hall with only the quickest smile and a glance from the brightest green eyes. A thud comes from behind her, like hand crashing into the seat of the floor, then stumbling from the compartment comes a boy. His robes are patched and his hair is jet black and oily. His eyes are dark as his hair and his skin is as pale as Simeron's. Catching himself, he straightens his clothes and looks to Simeron, bitterness leaking from him as he glowers at her. Without a word, he turns to follow the redhead. Simeron watches him go, sadness and pity filling her, though she doesn't know why, then she turns and walks back down the train as the whistle shrieks and the glow of lamps appear in the distance.


	4. Chapter 3: The Sorting

The platform is shrouded in mist and smoke coming from the train. Soft halos stretch from the flickering lamps that line up on either side of them. Brakes squeal as the train lurches to a halt. Simeron pulls open the door to her own compartment, Benedict and Maisie rising from their seats. Likewise down the hallway, students stand and move to the nearest exit.

"We're supposed to leave our luggage on the train," Benedict instructs, adjusting the collar of his robe. "They said it will come up separately."

"How?"

His shoulders rise to his ears then fall hard as he moves around her to leave the compartment. Giving a final stroke on Perrigan's cheek, Simeron turns to follow, Maisie already gripping her sleeves, a large grin covering her face. Simeron nearly trips as she's pulled out, half-running towards the exit. Students push and snake their way through the crowd, conversations turning into a jumbled mess of noise. All that can be heard is someone shouting, "First years! First years!" repeatedly from somewhere down the platform.

Benedict, Simeron, and Maisie make their way down, toes being stepped on, robes swept up by sudden gust of wind. A flash of copper catches Simeron's eye. Up ahead, the girl with the bright red hair walks purposefully in the same direction as Simeron and her friends. The boy with the patched robes and the hooked nose follows at her heels, like a dog following its master.

Older students part in a different direction, the crowd thinning until a white-haired figure appears in the distance. He is short, his back hunched, his hair straight and shoulder length, tied neatly at the nape of his neck. In his left hand he carries a lamp, the flame casting shadows on the brick. His right hand is lifted to his cheek, forming a C-shape around his mouth as he calls out, "First years! First years!"

A small crowd of eleven-year-olds circles around him, their eyes wide as they stare into the woods and darkness around them. Simeron presses into Maisie, Benedict staying close to her other side. The man wears a simple set of brown and green robes that hang loosely over his figure. His eyes are a muddy brown as he squints out at them, wrinkles deepening on his face.

"Is that everyone? Good, let's get on, then. Watch your step!"

They moved in the darkness, seeing nothing to either side as they shuffled down the steep slope. Hushed murmurs pass through some, but most say nothing at all, only the sound of shoes on dirt meeting their ears. Just around the bend, a thousand stars pierce the night sky. Only, they're not stars, they're window. Row upon row of windows line the castle that sits up on the hill. Turrets jut from top and sides reaching towards the crescent moon that cuts the night sky. In that moment, Lethylia is forgotten, for Hogwarts is the most beautiful thing that Simeron has ever seen. A lake stretches between where they stand and the castle. Rows of boats are tethered to short docks.

"No more than four to a boat," their guide shouts, his voice clipped in the evening air.

Stumbling in, Simeron, Benedict, and Maisie sit together, joined by a lanky girl with a narrow frame, lips a tight line, moon eyes, and dark brown curls falling around her face. The boat rocks gently from side to side as everyone sits down, careful to keep the edges of their robes from dipping into the water.

"FORWARD!"

The boats move forward, cutting smoothly and slowly through the lake towards the castle. As every meter passes, faces turn higher towards the sky, necks straining as Hogwarts looms higher above everyone's heads. Passing through a dark tunnel, they come to an opening and a second set of docks on the other side. Clamoring out of the boats, their guide leads them up a flight of stairs until at last they come to face a large wooden door. The white-haired man glances over his shoulder, his eyes passing over each student.

Pairs of eyes scan the large walls, sighs and exclamations moving through the bunch like a wave. Maisie pulls excitedly on Simeron's sleeve, Simeron too stunned to move. Beside them Benedict chews on his lower lip. Far too many thoughts to process go through Simeron's head. She'd never seen anything like it, and there is something about it in the dark that is almost scary, the spires like great thorns. She stares unblinking, her eyes fixed on the windows that wrap around the highest tower. Their guide knocks three times on the front door causing Simeron and several other students to jump. The wide doors swing open, revealing the open space within.

Jaws touch the floor. The hall is massive, a large staircase at the center reaching to the upper levels. At the foot of the stairs stand a tall witch, her face pinched and stern, her jet black hair tied into a bun on the top her head. She's dressed in robes of the darkest purple, a small brooch pinned to the collar in front of her throat.

The man who gathered the first years removes a tattered cap Simeron hadn't noticed among his hair, dipping his head slightly to the sharp woman. "Good evening, Professor McGonagall."

"Good Evening, Mr. Beaufort, and thank you," she says, her voice clear and firm, nodding to the gathering before her.

Mr. Beaufort's face turns a bright shade of pink as he bows again, a shy smile on his face, placing his hat back upon his head. He turn his back to Professor McGonagall, the smile fading into bitter agitation as he pushes his way through the crowd and out the front door, which shuts slowly behind him.

Alone with the stern eyes of McGonagall upon them, they all seem to pull closer together, finding some comfort in the group. Simeron's eyes never one leave the professor's face, though Maisie couldn't care less as she stretches up onto the tips of her toes to see around the whole room. Without a word, Professor McGonagall turns and leads the students down the hall. Everyone follows, their feet shuffling obediently behind her. Simeron's heart begins to jump, the nerves of it all eating away at her. Through a door, the buzz of voices can be heard, the voices of what Simeron can only assume to be the older students. They soon enter a smaller, vacant room to the left. They file in, rubbing shoulders with the person beside them, bunching themselves up to try and find a space of their own.

"What do you think we're doing?" Simeron asks Benedict, her voice no more than a whisper.

He shrugs, something he seems to do often, "Not sure. Suppose we're waiting to get sorted."

This does nothing to ease Simeron's nerves. Since the four houses had been mentioned on the train, Simeron had wondered how one might get sorted. Her magic wasn't any good, at least it wasn't under good enough control, so if their was a test, she knew she was certain to fail. And what would happen if she failed? Thoughts of how to explain her quick return to Lethylia occupied her brain, filling it up, when Professor McGonagall cleared her throat.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she says, her voice dignified, "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but first, you must be sorted into your houses. While at Hogwarts, your houses will be something like your family. Classes will be taken with your house, and you shall be dormed with your fellow house members.

"The four houses are Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. While at Hogwarts, triumphs will earn points towards your house, rule breaking will lose points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points will be awarded the House Cup. I trust that you all will prove to be valuable members to your respective houses.

"The sorting ceremony will begin shortly in front of the rest of the school. I will return when we are ready for you. Please, wait quietly."

The next several minutes were the longest yet. Little conversation passed, and the subjects were always light, asking about wands, classes, and when they were going to eat. Thankfully, Professor McGonagall returned, ushering them into the Great Hall. Four long tables stretched from end to end, one next to the other. Each one was filled, students packed side by side, except for the last ten feet or so, presumably the seats for the first years who pass the test. Golden plates, cups, and silverware sit in front of each place, though there is no food anywhere. Simeron's stomach gives a fussy growl. But what caught Simeron's eye next made her gasp. Pale and translucent figures float in midair at the sides of the room, hanging several feet above the floor: ghosts. The Elves believed in spirits, and Simeron had often been told and repeated ghost stories, but seeing them in person, she doesn't know what to say. What does one say to a ghost?

The first years march down the center aisle, grouping in front of the raised platform at the front of the hall. Simeron's legs felt like jelly, disconnected from the rest of her body. Maisie is practically shaking with excitement while Benedict looks relatively unimpressed. Above them, the ceiling morphs into darkness, shining white spots dotting the black fog, the stars in the sky watching over them.

Maisie follows Simeron's gaze over the ceiling, "They couldn't be the real stars, could they?"

Simeron shakes her head, "I don't think so. My father always told me you can't capture the stars."

Heads jerk forward as the scrape of wood makes contact with the stone floor. Up on the platform Professor McGonagall places a four-legged stool in front of the room. On top of the stool sits a pointed hat that looks as though its been chewed up and put back together several times over. A proper looking girl with blonde hair and narrow eyes turns her nose up, whispering frantically to her friend beside her.

For what seems like a long while, the students stare at the hat. Silence has fallen over the room, a pin could be heard dropping. Suddenly, the hat shutters, its tip flicking gently. Then at once it lifts up, a tear near the brim opening like a half-smiling mouth. First it groans, and then it begins to sing. Verse after verse its song pours from it, singing of Hogwarts and the four houses, a melodious refrain of its own talents. Truthfully, amongst the shock that has swept over the new students, Simeron hardly hears a word. Though, she had to admit, putting on a hat would certainly be far easier than anything she had thought of. At least she hoped.

It soon finishes, settling into its place. Professor McGonagall steps beside it, a long roll of parchment tight in her hands. "I will call your name one at a time. You will come sit on the stool and put on the hat and be sorted."

Simeron swallows the lump that formed in her throat. The stillness that had settled over the room lifts, students shifting from side to side, whispers coming from the tables behind them.

"Acrim, Felix!" Professor McGonagall calls.

A portly boys wobbles onto the stage, sitting himself on the stool with a sigh. Taking the hat in hand, he pulls the brim down just above his brow. For a moment it is still. Simeron begins to wonder whether it does anything at all. Then suddenly⸺

"HUFFLEPUFF!" it shouts.

The far right table begins to cheer, their hands thrown over their heads, some even standing to welcome their newest member.

"Azrus, Lilya!"

The announcement of "SLYTHERIN!" grabs the attention of a rather surly looking group of students. They applaud gently, some smirk and whisper the whoever sits beside them.

"Black, Sirius!"

The brooding boy with the dark hair and the solemn expression walks up to the platform. Simeron can't help but think he certainly looks like a Slytherin. Apparently the hat disagrees when after a moments thought it places him in Gryffindor. The other boy Simeron saw pats him on the back as he passes, grinning from ear to ear.

"Cromwell, Benedict!"

Benedict walks confidently through the students who have parted like the sea. Narrow fingers point up at his ears. Simeron didn't really think about it, but compared to most, Benedict was rather handsome. Girls giggle and twirl their hair as he passes, his Elvish genes aging him. He sits down on the stool, the Sorting Hat pulled over his head.

It doesn't take long for the hat to name him a Ravenclaw. He steps down, smiling at Simeron and Maisie as he passes.

"I hope I get Ravenclaw," Maisie whispers, "I suppose Gryffindor would be okay too."

Simeron nods, only half-listening as Maisie goes into details about house colors and mascots. Several more students are placed in their houses: Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Slytherins. The red-haired girl, Lily Evans, was placed in Gryffindor, her face only falling when she had to sit across from the smirking Sirius Black. The E's go by, then the F's, letter by letter getting closer to Moncrief. Soon enough, professor McGonagall calls her name. She walks slowly, Maisie squeezing her arm for good luck.

"Look at her ears!" people whisper.

"There's another one? A Half-Elf?"

The points of her ears begin to burn as she tucks her chin into her chest. Plopping down on the stool, McGonagall sets the hat atop her head. She waits, wondering if little tentacles will come out and probe her brain.

"How very interesting," a little voice whispers in her ear, "talented, yes, but where to put you? Intelligent, powerful, ambitious. You have something to prove, I see. Perhaps⸺no, no, that cannot be. It must be⸺SLYTHERIN!"

Slytherin. Simeron's heart throbbed in her chest, her stomach flipping. How could this be? Murmurs echo across the hall. A few Slytherins applaud, but most stare at her with curiosity, as though she is some kind of strange specimen. She feels small as she takes off the hat, pinching the brim, and walks down to join her house. She's welcomed with a cool greeting, a handsome boy with straight blonde hair nods at her from up the table.

"Snape, Severus!"

Simeron's head turns in time to see the boy with the patched up robes walk up to the stool. The hat was placed on his head and called out, "SLYTHERIN!"

Severus Snape walks towards Simeron, his eyes watching Lily as he moves away from the Gryffindor table. Students snicker, glancing up and down his robes and sneering. The messy-haired boy agains tries to trip him as he walks by. Severus sits down on the bench beside Simeron, his face turned down to watch his hands in his lap.

"Hello, my name's Simeron." She holds out her hand to shake his.

He glances up at her, his face twisted in distaste. "Severus," is all his says, ignoring her gesture. Simeron glowers at him, wondering what _she_ did to make him so grouchy. James Potter is placed in Gryffindor, his arrogance practically oozing from every inch of him. Simeron turns nose up, uninterested in ever having anything to do with him. Maisie becomes a Ravenclaw, she and Benedict smiling broadly as she sits beside him, chatting furiously.

Simeron begins to feel sick. This was supposed to be a new beginning, and Slytherin wasn't part of the plan. Nevertheless, she intended to make the best of it. Her father believed in her, and she vowed to make him proud. No matter the challenges, that was a promise she intended to keep. Besides, she always liked the color green.


End file.
